Dead Man's Hand
by stress
Summary: “Hey, Dave? Do you think we can squeeze Race into some of Les’s clothes?”


Author's Note: _I am a huge fan of challenges. When Brunette posed her challenge on the NML, I thought I would give it a shot. And, honestly, it took me forever to come up with a good use for the line she chose. However, after deciding to just have some fun with it, this drabble is the result._

_Props to those who know the story of the real Dead Man's Hand :)_

Disclaimer: _The characters highlighted in this quick pointless piece are, unfortunately, not my property. They are owned by Disney and appear here because I wanted them to. But I'm not making any money off of them, so it's all good._

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Dead Man's Hand

--

Racetrack Higgins looked down at the five worn playing cards that he held in his hand. Nervously, he bit down on the cigar stub currently clenched between his teeth. His dark eyes darted across the table. Using the limited candlelight available to the backroom of the Duane Street Newsboys Lodging House, he tried to read the faces of the three other boys sitting at the old, wooden table.

There was Skittery, scowling as usual. There was no hint there. Whether he had an face card high or a royal flush, the boy would wear that pout. He did lift one of his ink-stained fingers and nibble on the dirty fingernail. Race smirked. _He ain't got nothin'._ _I've got to be beatin' Skitts. Good. One down._

Good old Dave was sitting next to Skittery – though, truth be told, neither one of them was too happy about the arrangement. This was David's first time joining them at the poker table and, at first, he was having a bit of a hard time understanding the rules. After awhile he got it down and, to everyone's surprise, was pretty damn good.

There was only one thing that hadn't mastered yet, to Race's gratitude. His poker face was terrible. One glance and Race could tell that he had something but that something was really nothing. _Dave's a sucker. I don't got to worry about him._

But that left the fourth member of the game.

Jack was staring defiantly back at him – he caught Race's stare as he finished rounding out the table. His brown eyes were dancing in amusement as he leaned back in his chair. "You're up, Race. You in or out?"

Race hated the tone of voice that Jack had when he thought he had a good hand. It made him want to reach out and maybe slap the smirk off of his face. It was a pity that Jack was so quick and, you know, quite a bit taller than him.

He turned his attention back to the same five cards that had been staring at him since Jack dealt the cards. It wasn't a bad hand at all but, the way he'd been choking all evening long, he wasn't sure it was that good of an idea to take chances. As it was, he lost more money than he had expected. _Damn Davey, _he thought to himself as he looked up from his cards. _How was I supposed to know he'd be good at playin' poker?_

Race was going to fold, he was really going to, but, before he could, his eyes fell on the glittering pot in the center of the table. The flames caught the coppers, making the good twenty cent pot look so very enticing. What gambler was he if he didn't take the chance? Besides, maybe he could call Jack on his bluff – if the other boys' cards were really that good, there was no way that he would keep drawing attention to himself unless he was bluffing.

_I can win this. Maybe then I can even pay for my papes tomorrow._

"I'm in."

He looked down in front of his place but there was no money there. He had already put all of his money in – he had nothing left to add to the ante. Just his luck – on the last hand, the biggest pot and an okay set of cards, he runs out of playing money.

"Shit," he mumbled, laying his cards flat out on the table as he reached one of his hands into the right side pocket of his trousers. There was no money there. He checked the left pocket. Still nothing.

He was broke. Unless…

"Hey, Jack. You want to spot me a few cents for the pot?"

Jack laughed. Hell, even Skitts snickered under his breath. David, just like before, kept his gaze on his cards, as if he was trying to use his fancy learning to figure out the odds of the game.

Race sighed. "Then I guess I'm out."

"I got an idea, Race," Jack called out, enjoying himself way too much. He knew how Race could not turn down a bet or a wager – but, if Race wanted to stay in the game, he was going to have fun with it. "Why don't you made a deal with me."

Race cocked his head. He was listening.

"If you win, you get the pot. Not harm done. But," he said, smirking in that self-assured way that Jack Kelly had, "if you _don't _win, then you got to do whatever the winner," he continued, gesturing at him, Skittery and David, "tells you to make up for the wager. What do you think?"

He picked up his cards from the table. "Consider me in, then."

Skittery put his cards down, sharing them with the others. No good. A king, high, a ten, a six, a four and a two. Nothing.

David was next. He was shaking his head and biting his bottom lip. His cards were better but, Race noted smugly, not as good as his. A pair of queens, a jack, a nine, and an ace.

Jack was next but, as all eyes landed on him, he shook his head. He kept his cards folded in a pile, face down, in front of him. "Race, you go first."

_He's gotta be bluffin'. If his cards were good, he'd be showin' off, not passin' along. _

Race took the cigar butt out of his mouth and stubbed the smoldering ash against the table. Then, very slowly, he placed his cards down. "Two pair, Cowboy. Jacks and Sixes," he said triumphantly, his hands already reaching out to pull the pot of coins in towards him.

Jack cleared his throat. "Not so fast, Race. My turn." He picked his cards up and revealed the first card.

The nine of diamonds.

Then the next.

Eight of clubs.

Then the next.

Eight of spades.

The next.

Ace of clubs.

And the last.

The ace of spades.

Jack freaking Kelly had the dead man's hand. But he wasn't the dead man – Race was. Jack was just the last one standing.

Race was so surprised at seeing the ominous hand that he did not realize what it meant at first. It wasn't until Jack started raking in his winnings that he figured it out – he had lost. And Jack had been the winner.

He could just imagine what it was the boy had in mind to compensate for the wager.

Jack was chuckling to himself as he scooped up the pennies. He slid them into the pocket of his worn trousers, taking his time in doing so, before glancing across the table at Race. He took a second to compose himself before sizing the boy up and down. He made a great show of doing so before elbowing David in the side.

"Hey, Dave? Do you think we can squeeze Race into some of Les's clothes?"

_You've got to be shittin' me…_

_--_

"Okay, Race. Here's the deal. You go up to some poor unsuspecting dame and start hacking up all over her. When she looks at you with her doe eyes, tell her that you're near ten and offer to sell her a pape. I figure we should sell through these one hundred and fifty papes in no time," Jack said, patting Race on the shoulder. He was having a hard time keeping his face straight but he was finally able to finish giving the shorter boy the instructions. He handed him a stack of about fifteen papers. "You look so cute in your new clothes, Race. Just make sure that you don't start smoking none of your bum cigars. Ruins the image of you as an innocent kid, you know."

Racetrack was handling the humiliation better than expected. His only retort was to tell Cowboy to go lay a Delancey.

--

There was quite a bit of a crowd that watched as Racetrack followed Jack, Dave and Les out of the Distribution Center. However, one of them was really confused. So confused that he smacked his friend in his side for an answer.

"Snitch?"

"Yeah, Itey?"

"Since when does Race wear knickers?"


End file.
